


Song for the asking

by sahina



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (i love that it's an actual tag), Chronic Pain, Fluff, Jonathan Sims With a Cane, M/M, both of them are passionate about music because they're nerds, it is very tender and self indulgent, set between mag 159 and mag 160 (aka the Good Time), very soft jm content bc it's what they deserve!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahina/pseuds/sahina
Summary: Martin plucks the guitar from its stand, turning back to Jon with it in his arms. “Oh, wow, it has been long. Too long.” Jon hums, because he knows exactly how that feels.“Play something for me?” the words come out a little too gentle. He clears his throat. “If you want.” he adds, for good measure.A thoughtful look crosses Martin's face as he considers it, fingers traveling up and down the neck of the guitar as he does. The line between his eyebrows is back and Jon wants to reach up and smooth it out, to place a kiss there in its stead.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 169





	Song for the asking

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song by the same name by simon and garfunkel!
> 
> this is very soft and i honestly have no excuse other than that i love them both and think they deserve the world
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @mx-wayne where i will not shut up about tma

Settling into the safe house had been surprisingly easy, both parties too tired and world weary to do anything but ease into the calm of it. It’s nice… It's okay, _they're_ okay, despite everything. The realisation weighs down on his chest before dissipating into warmth that spreads to his fingertips. Jon wonders briefly if Martin can feel it radiating off him, feel it seeping through their connected hands. The thought makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He doesn't even try to suppress the smile for once because he knows he wouldn't want Martin to do so with his own, and watching him through the corner of his eye he couldn't resist smiling even if he wanted.

Martin looks relaxed, eyes crinkled with the ghost of a smile of his own. His shoulders hang lower than they have for a while, slouching slightly, but Jon can tell it's not to make himself smaller for once. He gives the hand in his own a light squeeze, and receives one in return. An unspoken _I’m here._

They're making their way through the village situated not too far from the cottage. It's small, with a population of less than a thousand people, but on one of the rare days with sunlight like this one, it is bristling with life. Unlike the impersonal London crowd it is unmistakably friendly with people greeting others and conversation flowing freely. It reminds him a little of his hometown, and while he had ached to leave it for so many years the familiarity isn't unwelcome. 

“Hey,” Martin knocks his shoulder into Jon’s, taking care to keep it light, successfully pulling him out of his thoughts. “There's a library there, wanna check it out?”

Jon’s eyes follow Martin’s line of sight and sees a small building, wedged in between the tiny coffee shop and the local grocery store. It looks older than the ones surrounding it. Jon can feel the year it was built pressing in his head, can almost touch the roundness of a zero, but he doesn't let it enter his mind. He’s getting good at not knowing things by now.

“Yeah, sure,” he's taken a moment too long to reply naturally, he realises, and the look in Martin’s eyes confirms it. There's a wordless question there, in the line between his brows and the set of his jaw. Jon simply shakes his head. It makes Martin break out into a relieved smile and Jon wishes he could take that expression and hide it in his chest to cherish forever.

“I wonder if they have poetry collections here?” he says easily, as if he hasn't distanced himself from poetry for the last eight or so months.

“Who knows? They might even have Keats,” Jon teases and is rewarded with en eye roll.

“Very funny.” he says, and despite his words Jon thinks he does found it very funny, or maybe it's just because it's Jon. 

The inside of the library is busy with shelves packed close and narrow aisles, but it has a homey air to it that's hard to capture in big cities. The sections are small but many, and Jon lets Martin pull him all over. These days, it’s hard to sit down and read like he used to be able to do, mind either craving a more stimulating activity or something that can be done while he’s half a mile away. He’s rather taken to knitting lately, with Martin patiently talking him through it even when he gets frustrated because he keeps dropping the stitch. So he follows, occasionally making a comment or two about the books Martin show him. They hold hands the entire time and as soon as he flexes his own fingers Martin’s curls around his own, probably without thinking about it, and it makes Jon warm.

They reach the poetry section soon enough. To say it is lacking is an understatement, but there are good volumes Jon himself can vouch for. He drags his finger along the spines as he reads them, lingering on Richard Siken’s ‘Crush’ _._ The sight of it takes him back to his early university days, starving for anything that made him feel like he wasn’t alone. Finding it in the nook of a book shop that’s long since closed, under the hand written sign saying “Gay Fiction” which wasn’t a label that truly fit him, but it was a long time ago and he hadn’t yet found the language to describe himself, so he bought it. He still has his own copy in his flat somewhere, scribbled on in the margins and with underlined sentences that stood out to him. A relic of a different Jon, a lifetime ago.

“What is that doing here?” Martin sounds disbelieving when he says it. “This is the last collection I’d imagined they’d have here.” he tugs it out from its place on the shelf. It’s obviously been read through many times and upon flipping it open there is the name _Thomas_ crossed out on the inside of the front page.

“Looks like someone used to own this.” Jon supplies. Watching Martin trace the letters with his fingertips. “I wonder if there’s writing inside?” he pointedly doesn’t think about it even though the answer is just a thought away. He’d rather thumb through it himself and find out. 

“Why would there be- Oh.” Martin turns his head to look at him comically slow. “Jon, have you read this? And furthermore, _do you write in your books?_ ” there’s nothing mocking in his tone, just genuine curiosity, but Jon is embarrassed all the same. 

“I was nineteen once too, remember?” he tries for causal, but judging by the amused quirk of Martin’s eyebrows he doesn’t succeed. “Whatever. You must’ve read this too at some point,”

Martin smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. I was maybe twenty two when I found it? While I never wrote in mine I’d dog ear the pages with the poems that resonated with me the most, you know? I don’t have my copy anymore though.” Jon doesn’t miss the sorrow his last sentence carries, and silently vows to himself to get Martin a new copy. Or perhaps his old one. He thinks Martin would appreciate a peek into his teenage mind.

“Want to check it out?”

Martin nods, adding it to the increasing list of books they’re bringing back. “Yeah, let’s do it. I’m honestly curious about this Thomas now and if there are any notes. I could really do with the reread, I haven’t thought about Siken’s poetry in years.”

They spend a while longer at the poetry section, Martin insisting on looking through all of the volumes. Jon doesn’t _really_ mind, but his leg is starting to ache and he foolishly left his cane leaning against the couch in their temporary living room. He doesn’t tell Martin, not wanting to tear him away from this, entirely too aware that they’d leave in a heartbeat if he knew and Martin deserves this-- deserves to take his time carefully picking out what poetry he wants to bring back.

He lets his eyes wander the library to distract himself and spots the children’s corner not too far away. There are a handful of children, all younger than ten he reckons, looking through colorful books and playing with the stuffed animals. It’s an endearing sight. Jon’s never been around children for long, always unsure how to interact with them, but he thinks that after all of this is done he’d like one, maybe two. The image of Martin sitting on the lumpy couch of the safehouse with a child climbing on him makes his ears burn. He quickly dispels it from his mind because that is way to soon for him to be thinking about. They’ve only _just_ started dating.

By the, admittedly tempting, pillow pile he sees a guitar and all of a sudden his interest is caught. He hasn’t played guitar for years, not since first starting at the institute, and he’s well aware he wasn’t every any good at it, but he feels the pull of it. He’s always loved singing, another hobby buried by time.

“Jon?” Martin questions when there’s a tug on his hand. Jon hasn’t even noticed he’d taken a step towards it.

“Oh, sorry. Just got lost in thought, I suppose.” he turns back to face Martin, who just shakes his head and leans around him to see what Jon had been walking towards. It doesn’t take long for him to spot the guitar. He visibly brightens at the sight of it.

“Do you play?”

He shakes his head. “No, never was any good at it.” a pause, and then. “Do you?”

The expression Martin makes before he opens his mouth is enough of an answer, in the wistful look in his eyes and the twitch of his upper lip. “Yeah. Used to play with my dad when I was younger before taking it up again in my teens. Haven’t touched one in a while now though.”

This time Jon can’t stop the knowledge of how Martin would spend his nights at seventeen, having recently dropped out of school. In his mind’s eye, Martin is still wearing the ill-fitted suit he’d found in the far back of his mother’s closet despite having finished his interview hours ago. There’s a beaten up acoustic guitar in his lap, littered with stickers and scratches. Jon doesn’t fish for it, but he also doesn’t close his mind immediately, so there’s the distinct impression of Martin’s mother’s face when she saw his clothes and yelling something about his father. Jon pinches his thigh to redirect his focus. It’s getting easier to lose himself in knowing.

“Would you like to go over there?” he settles on asking, only partly because the ache has quickly become a sharp pain digging in his muscles. He hopes Martin doesn’t take notice.

“We should be getting back…” Martin begins, but his hesitation doesn’t escape Jon. He gingerly places his other hand on Martin’s and leads them to the instrument. This time Martin doesn’t miss how Jon limps slightly as he walks, and lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around Jon’s middle for support. “Okay. We’ll stay for a bit, but only ‘cause you need a break, then we’ll leave.”

“Sounds good to me,” it really does, and the relief only grows when he collapses into one of the comically small chairs in the section. He’s aware of how strange it must look, two adult men without children sitting in the child section, but no one bats an eye. One of the parents smiles good-naturedly at them, which Jon attempts to return. He sincerely hopes it looks less like a grimace than he think it does.

Martin plucks the guitar from its stand, turning back to Jon with it in his arms. “Oh, wow, it has been long. Too long.” Jon hums, because he knows exactly how that feels. 

“Play something for me?” the words come out a little too gentle. He clears his throat. “If you want.” he adds, for good measure.

A thoughtful look crosses Martin's face as he considers it, fingers traveling up and down the neck of the guitar as he does. The line between his eyebrows is back and Jon wants to reach up and smooth it out, to place a kiss there in its stead.

“Do you know any Simon and Garfunkel songs?” he asks abruptly. Jon raises an eyebrow.

“I do. Georgie used to listen to them a lot in uni, why?”

Martin flashes him a heart stopping grin. “You’re singing.” he says with way too calm of a tone than the situation calls for.

“Am I?” Jon asks dumbly. Martin nods at him, encouraging. There’s a playful glint in his eyes and how could Jon ever say no to Martin? He sighs, mostly for show, leaning forward a little to rest his elbows on his thighs. “What are we playing?”

“What songs do you know? I like the calmer ones from their earlier albums.”

Jon agrees, “I think the only one I know the lyrics to is ‘Kathy’s Song’? I mean, I do know ‘The Sound of Silence’ but we are not playing that one. Tim has completely ruined it for me.” he catches himself as soon as he says it. Mentioning their fallen friends always feels like pressing on a fresh bruise for the both of them.

Martin chuckles quietly, full of the same hollow sorrow Jon feels. “Yeah, and Sasha would egg him on.”

“She would, and then I’d have the stupid opening lines stuck in my head for the rest of the day.” Martin laughs again, warmer this time.

“... ‘Kathy’, then?” he gives Jon one last look, clearly asking whether he actually wants to do this. He knows Martin wouldn’t hold it against him if he backed out. Jon hums a confirmation, once again touched by Martin’s consideration.

He starts plucking the strings, getting a few notes wrong at first, but it doesn’t change how impressing it is. Jon is sure it reflects on his face and for once, he doesn’t mind. The words come to him as he sings, familiar on his tongue. He’d sing this with Georgie back when they lived together. He has an especially treasured memory of early Sunday morning in the spring, sunlight forcing its way through the curtains in the living room as it played on the CD player they kept there. When this song came on Georgie would always stop what she was doing to hum along, and by now Jon had heard it enough times to know the words. He had startled her, when he sang them from where he was leaning on the doorway, but she quickly shook it off and broke out in a smile before dragging him by the arm to dance to it. Even now the scene brings warmth to him, even if she doesn’t talk to him anymore, and looking up at Martin as he stands in front of him-- eyes glued to his hands to make sure he doesn’t mess up the tune, the lines around his face softened, Jon carefully memorises the curve of his nose, lips, to cherish as well.

They finish the song, lets it fade out between them, before Jon begins rising to his feet again. His leg is rested enough to make it back home without too much of an issue. Before he can fully stand however, something pulls at his pant leg. Peering down, he sees one of the children who was previously preoccupied with a picture book clinging to it.

“Hello there,” Jon greets softly. The child, three years old at most, meets his eyes before shyly looking to her mother. Jon lifts his eyes to meet those of her parent standing a few meters away, applauding lightly.

“Seems like Melody really likes your music,” she supplies. “I don’t think I’ve seen either of you around before?”

“We’ve, ah, just moved here,” Martin says, placing the guitar back in its stand. “I’m Martin and this is Jon.” he adds hurriedly, before she can question them about their move.

“Nice to meet you,” Jon greets, nodding at her. His attention is drawn back to the little girl at his side, hand still curled in the fabric of his pants.

“I’m Joanna. I help out at the here at the library sometimes and I have to say, it’s been a while since someone played for the children like this,” she gestures to the rest of the section, the children having quieted down to listen to Martin and Jon play. Normally, Jon would’ve been horrified at being at the center of the attention like this, but seeing the calm that’s settled over them it doesn’t bother him at all for once. “You’re both very welcome to play here again. Actually, I’ll let you borrow the guitar there, if you promise to come back sometime tomorrow for an encore.” there’s nothing but kindness in her words, save for the playful tone she’d kept upon inviting them back, that Jon hasn’t seen in a stranger in a long time. It’s refreshing, and serves to make him feel more at home in their little village than London has felt since he came back from the dead.

“I think that sounds lovely,” Martin chirps, his hand finding its way to the small of Jon’s back. “What do you think, Jon?” he lowers his voice, turning his head slightly to look him in the eyes as he asks. Jon, when he’s not busy memorising the features of his face as if it’s the first time, can’t stop drinking in the adoring glint in his eyes, the fond tilt of his lips. Not a day goes by anymore where he doesn’t stop to appreciate it, as undeserving as he is.

“Yes,” he breathes. Clearing his throat and fighting the blush rising to his cheeks, he tries again. “Yes, I think so too.”

Martin doesn’t miss the way he stumbles, never does, and laughs through his nose. Acting a fool, Jon thinks, can be worth it sometimes if he can get Martin to laugh like this-- like nothing matters, like _everything matters._

“Great!” she claps her hands together. “Come here, Melody, let’s leave these two be,” smiling, she holds out her hand towards her daughter. Melody cranes her neck to look up towards Jon, as if asking permission. He feels all of him soften at the sight.

“Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.” he tells her. This seems to satisfy her, as she finally lets go of his pant leg to wobble over to take her mother’s hand. Jon pretends it doesn’t make his heart clench. He pointedly doesn’t allow himself to return to the previous image of Martin with a child of their own.

They bid their goodbyes, a few more parents approaching to tell them their little performance was appreciated, before they take their leave. Martin carries their haul, with almost enough books to be classified as a small library of their own, Jon jokes, while he gets the guitar. Martin had insisted on taking it all, as he is prone to do, but when Jon rolls his eyes and tells him he can wear a guitar on his back with no issues he relents.

Their way back isn’t very long, around fifteen minutes by foot, but at the pace they’re going- weighed down with books and ache- it’s going to take longer. It’s fine by the both of them though, with no obligations waiting for them other than dinner sometime in the near future. 

“While interacting with the villagers still makes me a little wary,” Martin begins, giving the hand in his a light squeeze. Jon makes humming noise to show he’s listening. “I think this’ll be good for us. Meeting people that aren’t.. You know…”

“Serving literal embodiments of fears?”

Martin huffs, “Yeah, _that._ ” then, softer, “... I’m happy having an instrument at home again.”

Jon doesn’t miss the use of _home_ , and finds that he doesn’t mind it at all himself. “Yes.” he allows his eyes to wander over the rolling hills of Scotland, catching on the patches of flowers in the distance. “Actually, I, er, used to play myself. Way back. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to refamiliarise myself with it. With you.”

Despite not looking at him, his attention is always on Martin these days, so of course he notices the sharp, flustered inhale. Knowing, not out of the unnatural kind but of the kind that comes with spending time with those you love, how much music matters to Martin it’s no surprise.

“I’d- I’d like that.” Martin says, his smile audible in his voice.

The silence settles over them like a blanket of comfort, keeping the warmth between them in and the harm out. It continues until the familiar sight of the safe house, of _home_ , can be seen on the end of the dirt road they’re walking along.

“Actually, we should get to working on what songs to play for the children. As much as I love just playing what comes to mind, chances are we don’t have enough songs in common.”

Jon nods. “I’m with you there. Do you have anything in mind?”

Martin thinks for a moment, the furrow between his brows making a return. “Say, what do you think about The Lumineers?”

Jon doesn’t say he’s never heard of them, or that learning lyrics completely from scratch will be a challenge, but the by way Martin says the name of the group- with barely contained excitement- it doesn’t matter. “Which songs do you have in mind?” he asks instead.

Watching his eyes brighten as he begins talking about one of their albums, Jon knows he’s made the right decision. It doesn’t matter in the slightest.


End file.
